Читать книгу Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal - Christopher Byford - Страница 10

It took a couple of weeks until Cole was trusted with errands and errands were all they were. Fetch groceries, order supplies and very occasionally deliver letters. The letters themselves were well-sealed affairs to expose any attempts at tampering and, sure, Cole did, on occasion, feel the pangs of curiosity as to their contents. He thought better of it and delivered them to bar owners and shopkeepers, who each thanked him with a great deal of gusto.

For a while, Cole believed that he would be stuck as a second-rate deliveryman. There was certainly no stated intention of handing him more serious work, though his frustration over this was never vocalized. He saw how Jack treated others who attempted to outgrow their position – Blakestone most regularly, for he seemed to constantly push the boundaries of what was acceptable. Not wanting to endure any verbal lashings, nor threats of the physical sort, Cole wisely kept his grievances contained.

Jackdaw had done plenty to keep Cole busy but today hands were short, so Cole would have to accompany him on an apparently auspicious job. No details were discussed beforehand, only suggestions to carry out his chores quicker so they could be on their way. Time was, apparently, wasting.

Daylight welcomed the pair as they strode out into the long streets of Esquelle. Sandstone buildings of various compositions bordered the roads, their façades pitted by wind and war. Those with places to be strode on with purpose, those without took a more relaxed pace. The occasional truck bounced along the cobblestones, its body rattling loudly, along with its cargo and driver as it put-put-putted along.

Cole kept a brisk pace to keep with Jack’s own, stepping around those who marched past with importance clouding their manners. They moved past the docks, where the sand ships dominated the skyline with their enormous hulls, and into the trading quarter. It was here where most of the shady deals were done. It was just out of the way of the markets and stores, to operate on the fringe of legality, but close enough to give the impression of legitimacy.

In a small communal square, blocking the way to a communal water fountain, two robed men stood with armfuls of printed leaflets. The robes themselves were clearly of considerable worth, blacks and blues with flecks of silver, accompanied by peculiar, well-tailored symbolism down the back. They both declared their importance and accused the snubbing passers-by of insurmountable transgressions. For the most part they were completely ignored for this was just part of the day-to-day in Esquelle now.

Jackdaw, however, was not one of these who simply went on his way. Instead he sharply turned on his feet and approached. The first he shoved so they landed backwards, the leaflets launching into the air. The second was gripped by his robe collar.

‘Boys, boys, now what have I said about loitering? You’re irritating these nice folk.’

‘Get your hands from us, heathen!’ The man shuddered in surprise. ‘Witness! Witness the depths that you have sunk to! The likes of which will be dealt with when the Black Storm rolls in!’

Jack narrowed his brows. ‘See, that’s the problem with you doomsday predictors. There’s quite a while between the now and when what you tout will come to pass. Let’s say you’re right. Whatever happens in the now will surely take time for me to be punished for. That’s a risk I’m comfortable in taking. So if I see you again and the ground isn’t being torn asunder, I’ll be sending you to whatever goddess you worship personally. Get me?’

The man was tossed backward into the dirt. The pair scrambled away, watched by a few onlookers, leaving their pamphlets in the dirt.

‘Was that necessary?’ Cole attempted to restrain any sense of grumbling, but suspected Jack had cottoned on to this fact.

‘I don’t know where you came from, but if your town wasn’t infested with these maniacs then I envy you. Sure they’re all presentable, clean-shaven folk, but get enough crazies together and they do crazy things. Murders. Beatings. All the bad stuff.’

The thought of such things was far too dramatic for Cole to believe. All he had witnessed was a couple of street preachers being rough-handled. If he wasn’t in the company of somebody quite so unpredictable, he would have protested much more vigorously.

‘That has to be just rumour. All they were doing was preaching on a corner. There’s no harm in that. You just walk past and don’t listen if it’s not your fancy.’

‘I like to think I’m doing a public service.’

‘In whose eyes?’ Cole immediately recoiled, realizing he had completely spoken out of turn.

Jack slowed his stride and encouraged the man accompanying to stop a spell and take heed of his words. ‘Since the wars in the north, crazies like them are becoming more and more vocal. They preach about this and that, telling us how damned men like me are. I personally prefer to do my business this early without someone judging me. Makes me feel guilty of wrongdoings I’ve not performed yet.’

They continued. Jack nodded to a couple of street vendors, one tossing the pair a piece of fruit each. Cole stared at the peculiar, spiny, purple flesh, quite new to it, unsure how to eat it. His first attempt to peel it resulted in its barbs drawing blood.

‘You’re not worried about any of that I take it? The wars I mean, as clearly judgement doesn’t apply to you.’

‘Wars come and go. Always have, always will. History is littered with someone wanting what the other has and doing bad things to get it. These strange days are no different.’

‘What if it reaches down here? You’re not worried about any potential invasion?’

Jack heartily laughed at the suggestion.

‘Look around you, kid. Why would Cruden attempt to invade a shit-hole like the Sand Sea? It’s far too big to occupy. The manpower required would be enormous and do you honestly think that people would just lie down and let that happen? Folks around here are a mite touchy when it comes to being threatened, be it by animal, man or nation. The Empire’s got their hands full trying to stamp out the remains of that uprising against them. The Yellow Rebellion people there called it. Now, should you see Cruden flags hoisted in the capital we may have a different view on things. Bad men like us will be out of work as the Empire is less than tolerant of our kind. Until that day though …’ Jack prodded Cole in the chest firmly to get the point across ‘… it’s business as usual.’

Finally Cole managed to split the snack apart, only to have ribbons of orange and pips burst between his fingers. He raised it to his mouth and slurped the bittersweet contents.

‘I wish I had that kind of confidence.’

‘You’re a tolerant sort, Cole. Saw it in your eyes the first time I threatened you with iron. You think everyone is righteous and true until being proved otherwise. Good-natured, clean-mannered, that sort of thing. Am I wrong? Do you believe people should all just get along?’

Jack searched himself for a roll-up and struck out the contents of a matchbook to light it. The first couple of puffs were savoured.

They stopped, feeling the beat of the morning sun upon them. Cole became all too aware of a tear of sweat tracing down a cheek whilst falling short of providing an answer.

‘You’ve got convictions. I like that.’ Jack crushed the spent match beneath his boot. ‘By the time this day is through we’ll see just how firmly you hold on to them.’

He thumbed up to a sign advertising the presence of a bric-a-brac store. Its windows were heaving with random things, from furniture and decorations, to weaponry and charms. None was particularly well sorted and the numerous piles seemingly threated to tip over at any point. It mirrored many others down this street, the colourfully named Crap Alley, being that you could find anything in the plentiful undertakings of the resident kleptomaniacs.

After hearty handshakes and secretive whispers with its owner – Cole’s new standing had put the storeowner at great unease – Jack concluded his business, relieving the owner of an old trunk. Its red veneer was dented and peeling, a state of distress that could only be accountable by long neglect. Despite its age, it was sturdy enough for its task, rendering it heavy enough to require the pair to carry it via the handles at each end.

The route to the marketplace required navigating a bevy of claustrophobic alleyways, each littered with vagrants and collecting the most nauseating of smells. Finally, with no short amount of grunting, they reached the market. Multicoloured bunting fluttered from stalls. The sights and sounds of animal trappers, food vendors and stallholders enclosed them the deeper they moved inside.

They had barely made it halfway in before Cole began to voice his concerns.

‘This stuff is heavy. What exactly is it?’

‘Some weeks back we knocked over an antiques place up north. Nothing spectacular of course, but plenty to bring in some cash, about four hundred or so. We stashed it away until the heat was off the goods. Now we’re going to sell them.’

‘Where? Do you have a buyer set up?’

‘Nope,’ Jack rearranged his grip. ‘We’ll flog it at this here bazaar.’

‘Just here? Out in the open?’

‘You seem to be questioning me at every turn and I don’t appreciate that.’

Cole stole glances at the storekeepers, the patrons and everybody else within his eye line. Paranoia began to creep in.

‘No offence intended. I’m just thinking that isn’t this quite risky? I mean we’re doing this in broad daylight.’

‘There’s too much going on to focus on little old us. The Bluecoats won’t be a problem. Their eyes will be elsewhere. Let’s go down this alley and check the stock first. I want a bead on what we can sell here.’

They manoeuvred past the people and down into a narrow backstreet, tight and with questionable sewer access judging by the smell. When the noise of the market had softened, a procession of shadows suddenly fell over the pair as the route was cluttered with four people. None of those who interrupted the proceedings seemed to be particularly happy to see the pair. They each wore grimaces, their faces running the gamut from boorish to downright ugly. Backing up was impossible as another man blocked the way they came. This one was decidedly larger, bulbous but easily reaching seven foot in height, blessed with a disfiguring scar down the left side of his face.

Jack tugged on the trunk handle, a slight jerk to encourage Cole to come to a stop. It wasn’t needed.

At the front of the group, a stocky individual stepped forward to speak on their behalf. His attire was a fine attempt at dressing with some class, though his true nature was given away by patches in his woollen trousers and stained tunic. He smiled, revealing the glimmer of a gold tooth. He assessed the silent caution that Jack had now adopted.

‘What’s the problem, Jacky boy? You don’t seem happy to see us.’

These were the people you didn’t want to bump into down an alleyway, dark or otherwise. These were the ones who inhabited bad streets, shady backend bars, all the places that the unfortunate found themselves. Jackdaw immediately sprung into a well-rehearsed display of asserting his presence.

‘Quite the opposite in fact, Derek! I count myself quite fortunate that you’re all still up to, well, whatever you’re doing here. Slouching? Loitering? Always on the up with you Sanders Boys.’

The bravado wasn’t well received. Derek blindly spat a wad of chewing tobacco beside his feet. ‘Still the funny bastard, as ever.’

Naturally eyes went to trunk between the pair, something that Cole quickly stepped in front of to block from view.

‘What’s in the box?’ Derek asked, tilting to see over Cole’s shoulder.

Jack immediately dismissed it with a wave of his free hand. ‘Oh now, this is something you don’t want to be paying mind to. It’s just some old assorted junk. For the scrapheap, nothing more.’

‘Let’s have a look shall we? If it’s, you know, just junk.’

‘What, you’re not the trusting type?’ Jack straightened up.

‘More of the curious variety.’

Jack and Cole failed to move. Cole didn’t want to ignite a situation that was already a tinderbox and Jack kept his nerve impeccably.

Behind them the cracking of knuckles became nauseatingly loud.

‘Oh, Derek, come now, what’s all this?’ Jackdaw asked.

‘You’ve been too bossy as of late, Jack. We need to take the jobs that you leave behind these days, the scraps, and they do not pay well. This time though, this time, we get the payoff. Today, us Sanders Boys get to be the smart ones. You’re all alone, just the two of you. Stupid, ain’t it?’

‘Stupid,’ Jack repeated with a quirk of his brow. ‘For a box of junk?’

‘We both know that’s far from junk.’

The large one grunted from behind, coaxing a turn. He growled at Jackdaw, his lip curtailing unevenly in clear reminiscence of a previous encounter.

‘Still sore about that scar, eh, Brutus?’ Jack showed his teeth with glee. ‘You shouldn’t be. It adds character. Gives you that whole don’t test me look. It’s a good look. It suits you. You’re welcome.’

Cole cleared his throat. ‘So, er … you boys gonna shoot us or something?’

‘They won’t shoot us,’ Jackdaw bragged, ‘they won’t do shit.’

‘Yeah?’ Brutus grunted, letting his anger dominate. He took his revolver into his oversized grip. Given the size of the hand holding it, the weapon was hilariously small. It was a miracle that one of the fat fingers could fit in the trigger guard.

‘That’s the truth of it. You Sanders Boys can pat yourselves on the backs and clink your glasses saying that you got one on ol’ Jacky boy, but we all know that if anything else comes to pass, there’ll be hell delivered to your doors.’

Jack shed the humour from his words. He became sharper, with threatening eyes that burnt with conviction.

‘You think the big man would tolerate it? An insult to me is a message to him. I think you’ll find I’m far more lenient than Donovan has ever been. And he will come for you and brush you from the gutter to the grave without even blinking. You know it. I know it.’

The trunk end smacked the pavement as his fingers released the handle. Cole followed quickly on account of feeling somewhat foolish. They each took a step away from their cargo.

‘So celebrate, boys! You earnt this one. We’ll be going on our merry and you can do … you know. The drinking. Back-slapping. All of that. Until he comes for you.’

Jackdaw went to stride away, encouraging Cole to follow suit with a flick of his eyes. Brutus, however, did not move, doing an excellent job of blocking their escape.

‘Do you know what I heard?’ Derek stated, casually striking up a cigarette. ‘I heard that the famous Jackdaw isn’t so close to the big man any more. You see, someone mentioned that you ended up screwing up a deal months back, some simple drop job. Yeah, quite a penny’s worth of goods it were. It wouldn’t surprise me if the whole thing had been fabricated so that you could sell the drop on your lonesome.’

Jack’s eyes darted to the trunk, watching the Sanders Boy’ smiles develop grandly. This was going to get ugly.

‘And if I recall correctly, and I suppose I do, I heard that if you messed up again, your corpse would be buried so far deep in the Sand Sea that even the Angels wouldn’t be able to find you.’

Jackdaw felt his cocksure smile fade. His assumption was right. Derek finished his cigarette with a painfully long draw.

‘So I think the big man will thank us for doing you over. Get them!’ he ordered.

* * *

Back in the marketplace, the Blacksad Inn went about its usual business, the bustle of customers looking for a midday drink came and went through the doors. Meals were eaten, the staff kept considerably busy in their duties, but not so busy that they didn’t notice the pair of bloodied individuals who shuffled their way upstairs and took a table overlooking the market itself.

Jackdaw exhaled, finding relief in sitting down. Everything ached. Even his bones felt like they were sore. Luckily none were broken, or at least not that he could tell. There was always time for a fracture to reveal itself but for the moment, despite the numerous swellings, Jack was as intact as one could get. He rifled through his dirtied jacket and withdrew a crushed pack of smokes, taking out a crooked one, and slipped it between his lips. His matchbox, excessive patting found, was missing.

* * *

Cole thought that Jack looked wretched, but what was more worrying was the out-of-place smile that he touted.

‘Got a light?’ Jack grunted.

Cole pinched each tooth and tested them in turn, unimpressed. His fingers were dabbled in red on account of a nasty split lip. Rather than reply, Cole simply glared, prompting the cigarette to be put upon the table. Jack’s attention turned to other things, waving one of the waitresses for service and calling out for two tankards of house ale.

‘I’m hungry. What do you fancy?’

Cole immediately halted his survey of personal damage. ‘An explanation.’

‘I don’t think they serve that here,’ Jack quipped.

The waitress, a blonde, stocky thing with an apron dirtied from a busy shift, sauntered over with tray in hand. She glanced between them and made a coy pursing of her lips. Finally, with a tut, she placed a tankard in front of each, overfilled with foam.

‘Have a disagreement with someone, did we, flower?’ she addressed Jackdaw, whose bruises had already begun to darken. ‘I do hope you’re not dragging trouble behind you as I would hate to have to send you on your way.’

‘Mmm. Quite the contrary, I’m in a celebrating mood. We’ll each have whatever special you’re doing for lunch today, plus two more tankards of Pitch Ale, if you please, to go with it. Oh, and if you could tell the good woman of the house that I’m here, I would be quite thankful.’

‘I can surely do that. And you are?’

Jack leant back in his seat and drew on his drink. ‘You don’t need my name. Just tell her that I’m here. That’ll be plenty.’

‘Celebrate?’ Cole hissed. The urge to look over his shoulder constantly was all-consuming. It was the first time in his life that he had been involved in such a physical confrontation, and the adrenaline had yet to wear off. ‘I don’t consider getting done over worthy of celebration! I mean, was that it? We lost the goods. I’m lucky I didn’t lose a damn tooth out of this farce.’

He brought a hand to his mouth and retested a canine with a gentle wiggle.

‘That scrap was nothing. If they meant business, we would be a lot worse off. Just hold your horses, kid,’ Jack protested.

‘There’s nothing else to do at the moment. That’s a hell of an initiation if that’s what it was. You could have warned me that we were going to get done over like that. You don’t seem to be the kind to willingly take a punch, more like one who would throw it first.’

Finally, Jack swung forward, hunching over his tankard, which was already only a quarter full. Unfortunately, his attempt at courting patience was failing and as such he turned to another tactic, which was to be blunt. Jackdaw was good at being blunt. He could do blunt. Especially when new bloods were getting bent out of shape and unable to widen their scope of perception.

‘For a numbers man, you’re none too bright are you? So I’ll spell it out.’

Jack hadn’t positioned them by the window by accident. He needed a good view of the market and those therein. He gestured to the rabble of men carrying a familiar trunk – the Sanders Boys doing plenty to make their presence known. Others immediately stepped aside on their approach and those who didn’t move were shoved. They manhandled a trader from his usual stall and tossed the trunk upon it, much to the ire of the other sellers. Nobody intervened of course.

Jackdaw pointed at two distinct individuals from the window. One was a farmer struggling to flog his home-grown wares. The second was yelling for buyers to relieve him of his bric-a-brac. Both were conventional stallholders with nothing special about them.

‘Watch those two.’

Within a minute, the waitress who had served them stepped outside and made her way to the farmer, a drink upon her tray. She spent only seconds conversing with him whilst handing him the beverage before retreating back inside. The farmer, in response, abandoned his stall and made his way to the bric-a-brac seller. The farmer toasted him and exchanged a few words before returning.

‘I don’t get it,’ Cole mumbled.

Jack drank from his tankard, contentedly.

‘Look around you – there are no secrets in a town like this. Everyone is close. Everyone is knee-deep in each other’s business. I mean sure, many try to keep themselves quiet, shield those secrets from others, but that’s where they mess up. In doing so their attempts to cover up what they’re doing draws suspicion. People whisper. Those whispers get bigger until they reach the ears of someone who, well, let’s just say someone who has a vested interest in the information. Ah, case in point right there …’

The bric-a-brac stallholder flagged down a Bluecoat who then paced away with purpose. He came back with five of his kind, pistols at the ready and weaving among the throng of bodies. As soon as they reached the Sanders Boys, they immediately overturned the stall, scattered the goods and clapped the men in handcuffs. The trunk was confiscated as evidence.

‘As I said before, bigger fish and all that.’ He rose, stretching his arms. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, I have business to conduct. Just stay here and observe.’

‘What kind of business this time?’

‘I’m taking a piss if that’s okay with you?’ Jack turned back. ‘And don’t eat any of my food while I’m gone.’

What Jack had said was mostly true, but beforehand, he met with the stallholders outside. A group had formed around him, taking turns to shake his hand. As he was asked to, Cole observed, watching this curious display, oblivious to the food placed before him and the empty place opposite. The sight of Jack bathing in the gratitude transfixed him – seeming a fair way from the crook he perceived Jack to be.

Eventually, Jack returned, wiping his damp palms across his trousers, seating himself and then rubbing his hands together in glee. The plate of bread, cheeses and meat didn’t seem much but was a triumphant banquet given recent events. It was only noon and already the day had been quite successful.

The waitress returned, this time with her tray empty but wearing quite the smile. She gestured to the food between them.

‘The good lady says these are on the house, and anything else you take a fancy to ordering. I guess you two must have found her sweet spot somehow. You’ll have to let me in on the secret when you’re done.’

From inside her apron she produced a brick of brown butcher’s paper, tightly bound by string.

‘With her compliments. And thanks.’

Jackdaw playfully nodded, watching her backside as the woman took her leave.

Cole, however, was too set on the package for his attention to be diverted. To satisfy his colleague’s curiosity, the paper was torn open, revealing a brick of paper money.

Cole spluttered his drink, wiping spots of foam from his lips. ‘How much is there?’ he asked, quite astonished.

‘Count it.’

Cole flicked through the notes with speed. When done, he restrained a knowing gasp. ‘That’s almost double what you would have got for offloading the merchandise.’

Jack noisily drained his second drink.

‘Exactly. The Sanders Boys stole what they could and were selling it off at this here market. If anybody objected they put muscle on them. Turns out, the boys were putting such a dent in the profits and faces of the other stallholders, they pooled their money together to buy a solution – which was me. I knew we were going to be roughed up by them, but it was necessary as we couldn’t just hand it over. They get some hot goods from us and attempt to sell them. The Bluecoats get word and haul them off. They’re put in cells for a few months, meaning I have no competition on their territory should I desire to encroach on it. Which I do.’ Jackdaw took a long draw on his drink and gasped in satisfaction. ‘And the fine, honest folk here get to go on with their livelihoods, unhindered.’

For the first time since their arrival, Cole formed something resembling a smile. ‘Clever.’

‘Ain’t it just? See what I mean about celebrating, now?’

Their tankards rang out as they struck them together.